"Tisby is away at sea now," she was saying with anxious looks to Emily. "The Marquess becomes angry at every letter from him that arrives. I don't know what to tell her."
"Perhaps I could be of help?" He was all solicitude. "I would be happy to tell her uncle that Tisby is a good and honorable man. I think he can be made to see that he could not hope for a better match."
She could hardly believe the conversation. He and Marie-Anne went on with their scheming while she was enlisted by Emily to write her what exactly was transpiring. She cut in before the whole nonsense got out of hand.
"My lord, I can hardly think that a word from you would solve the matter entirely. The Marquess–"
"I believe I can convince him, Lady Helen, have no fear of that. There would at least be no harm in trying."
He was so confident. She tried to think back to a time when she was ever so sure of the worth of her own words, and failed. Setting her jaw stubbornly, she presented an irrefutable bit of logic. "And how shall you say you know her at all, much less that you know of her romance? It will only make her association with us plain to him, don't you see? You must not forget what we are, and what it means for a respectable girl to be linked to us."
She wanted to bite back the truth in the words, but could not. Emily was attuned to the quick change in mood and tapped Helen's shoulder for an explanation of the embarrassed quiet. The Earl of Summerdale was staring at her without expression, the green of his eyes sparking in the sun.
"We shall say that I met her on a ride through the village, when my horse lost its shoe. It is indirectly true, at least, you must admit." He looked to Marie-Anne now. "I'll invite her to...a dinner party at my home. That's where she will confide in me about Tisby. Will the Marquess make her refuse the invitation?"
"From you, my lord?" Marie-Anne was wildly amused. "He shall push her out the door! And her aunt will escort her. It can work."
"Perfect," he said shortly. "The Marquess's wife is oblivious to scandal, I understand, unless it's announced in the pulpit. You must all come." His boyish grin reappeared. "I can hardly have a dinner party without guests."
He would brook no argument from Helen, hatching a scheme that would convince Emily's aunt that the dinner was to do with a church donation, and the ladies present all active in the parish. Emily was to be vague as to the other women invited, and his coach would call for them Thursday next.
In less than a minute, it was all settled. Marie-Anne was enthusiastic, and Emily delighted. It was only Helen who did not join in the planning, feeling so surly that in the end she put up no protest despite the risk, despite the knowledge that she hadn't a proper dress, and despite the feeling that he had entered her world almost completely and left her in a state somewhere between anxiety and delight.
"Such a lovely carriage to carry such a drab specimen," complained Marie-Anne.
Helen shot her a look that said she'd had quite enough of the topic. She had unbent so far as to unearth a dress she had been used to wear for Sunday services. It was a steel gray, and simply cut, perfectly respectable and serviceable, though seven years out of fashion. The shawl Helen had chosen and the alterations that kept the dress from constricting her breath were at fault for offending Marie-Anne's sensibilities. Helen had last worn the dress when she was sixteen, so she'd had to let out the bodice. So long as she was re-working it, she had seen fit to raise the neckline somewhat with the addition of a scarf as trim. It was still too low-cut for her liking, particularly how it almost exposed her shoulders, which is why she'd insisted on the shawl.
"But really, Hélène, you could have worn my pretty pink wrap. This one is..." she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Ugly. It is the only word. That color!"
"The color is brown, Marie-Anne, and you may take yourself off to Paris if you're so desperate to see well-dressed ladies. Try to remember that we are supposed to be church mice, not peacocks."
"Her looks will do, if that's what you're carping on," Maggie interjected in English.
The rest of the ride was spent in extolling the inherent taste of the French in all sartorial pursuits, as opposed to the ignorance of the frumpy Irish. Helen left them to it and set her mind to the task ahead. It was foolish, this plan. There was no reason for such a preposterously elaborate ruse. Surely someone like the Earl of Summerdale could have found better reason to approach the Marquess on behalf of Emily's romantic hopes. With each passing mile, she felt more and more trapped, hemmed in by the velvet hangings of his coach. Emily and her aunt were to meet them at Lord Summerdale's home.
Somewhere between Maggie's impassioned defense of Irish wool and Marie-Anne's reminiscence of her favorite Parisian milliner, they pulled into a curving drive lined with stately oaks. As the manor lights came blazing into view, Helen's hand clenched on the rug across her knees. She would have gladly spent the next few hours digging in the garden or cleaning the chimney. Even scrubbing the laundry would have been better than this excursion into polite society.
Lord Summerdale was waiting for them in the entry foyer. The sight of him in his formal, midnight blue coat made her want to flee into the night, but still stay to look at him. He extended a hand to her, bowing over it and once again holding on for just a second more than he should. But she did not pull away. He seemed the only thing that was stable in her swaying world. She watched him greet Maggie as an honored guest "representative of the local churchgoer" instead of the housemaid he knew she was. The farce came to him quite easily, she thought, though it was kind of him to include them all.
"Miss Emily has not yet arrived. I would usually give you a brief tour of the house, but I'm afraid most of the rooms are being re-furbished, and there is little to see but drop-cloths and pails of varnish," he explained as he led them further in. "I fear I have made the worst possible choice for the main salon, so I will spare you the sight of it even half-finished."
"A gentleman always needs the help of a lady in such things," Marie-Anne sniffed. "Come, Maggie, we will advise Lord Summerdale, and see if you have more talent for décor than for gowns."
He did not object, only requested that Helen come with him to await Emily while the others were shown on their way by the butler. Again, she had the feeling of being trapped by design as she followed him. He led her past the dining room, saying nothing as she walked hesitantly behind him.
When he opened the door, it took every ounce of energy she possessed not to let out a gasp of delight. It was the library, stocked floor to ceiling with books. She said nothing to him, only walked over to the nearest shelves to examine the leather-bound volumes. Her hand hovered over Shakespeare's sonnets, then moved to a work by Shelley, before resting idly on Keats.
"It would seem you are a romantic, my lord. I should have guessed, the way you contrived this evening for Emily." She slid her eyes over to him and was amazed to see he looked abashed.
"You have only seen the poetry. I assure you, there is a wide variety of all kinds of literature." He waved his hand vaguely. "You may find something to interest you on these shelves."
She crossed over to them, a pamphlet between the books catching her eye. She pulled it out and turned to him with eyebrows raised. "A treatise opposing the Corn Laws? An upstanding subject of the Crown as you are? I am shocked, sir."
He shrugged with a smile. "There is a treatise supporting them as well, you'll find. And arguments for constitutional monarchy, and against. Slavery and anti-slavery, federalism and anti-federalism – that debate is old but continues. I thought you may have an interest in them particularly, with your sympathy for the Americans."
"Well, you are not one to choose sides, are you? Interested in all arguments but not advocating one over another." Her back was to him as she searched through the books for the essays. When he did not respond, she thought she had offended him. "I did not mean to imply that... Well, I don't know what I meant," she apologized over her shoulder.
A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the floor. "You
r brother said you were perceptive," he said thoughtfully, as though to himself. "It's true I don't enter the public debate in politics. Or in much else. My beliefs on such things remain private when possible, which I consider vitally important."
She had obviously intruded into that privacy by speaking of it. She turned back to the shelves and wished madly that he did not look so elegant. It was terribly uncomfortable, being in this house where the carpets were so thick and the fires roared with huge logs. He probably never considered the cost of fuel, or the damage a stray spark could do to the expensive Aubusson silk. She felt small and awkward among the opulence of the furnishings.
If only she had met him years ago, anywhere else, in any other circumstance. He could have drawn her attention across a ballroom and asked for a dance. They could have taken a jaunt through Hyde Park, or viewed the gardens together on a pleasant afternoon.
He should have known her before, when she was not swallowed up in fear and regret.
She stood lost in that thought, her eyes unseeing until he came up closely behind her and reached slowly over her shoulder.
"I think this is what you're looking for, Lady Helen," he said softly, pulling a book from the shelf.
He was only inches away from her. She looked at his hand holding the book, powerless to reach out and take it from him casually, the quiet moment spinning into an eternity. He was staring at her again. She knew it without looking but she kept her eyes trained on his fingers, afraid to see what was in his face when her heart was stuttering in such a way. She felt like a coward – she could not remove her gaze from the book, his hand, the crisp white of his cuff. Very slowly, he tilted the volume toward her and she reached up to take it, telling herself all the while that she should move away from him. Away from his heat and the thin cushion of charged air between them.
But she didn't move away. She only gathered herself with a shallow breath, determined to take the strangeness out of the moment, and looked up to find his eyes fixed on her lips.
For a moment, she let herself feel the excitement of it – the light falling on his face, the sharp focus of his gaze on her mouth – until she remembered and stepped back from him. She turned back to the shelves, blinking repeatedly, and looked down at the book she held. She stared blindly at it and murmured, "Thank you," as she began riffling through the pages in search of something interesting enough to discuss. If only Emily would come.
He at last stepped back a pace. "I thought perhaps," he cleared his throat lightly, "that perhaps you might like to borrow something that interests you. Anything at all. You have only to choose it. The Greek philosophers are especially well represented."
The spell at last broken, she gratefully wandered over to an armchair and was pulled out of her distraction by the open book she found there. "Simonde de Sismondi? Are you reading this now?" she asked with a false brightness. "I would not deprive you of it, but I have heard it is most fascinating."
"I have recently finished it. You are welcome to it, of course, but are you sure it's what you prefer?" He looked at her as if she had said she had a preference for a dessert of sawdust.
She lifted her shoulder casually. "Indeed I am. The study of economic theories has become interesting to me over the years. There is little enough to occupy my mind, so I have passed the time with what most people would say are unusual interests." She was chattering on senselessly again. "I may choose during dinner to make an argument against the Corn Laws, and you can support them, and we shall bore Emily's aunt to tedium. We'll have her snoring before the soup is cleared and she'll be none the wiser. An excellent plan, wouldn't you say?"
"Most excellent," he smiled.
"But this isn't a translation. It's the original French?"
"It's too recent to have in English, but I am assured by Madame de Vauteuil that you are proficient in French."
"And she assures me that you are not." She looked at him curiously. Why hide such a thing? Unless he had thought to catch them off guard, to hear something that he could pretend not to understand. It might be one of his tricks for learning everything about everyone, discreetly.
She folded her arms and gave him a critical look. "Well, well. You talk of enchanted glens. You read romantic poets but turn the topic toward politics and economics. You know French, but pretend you do not. What am I to make of that, my lord?"
He straightened his shoulders and spoke with mock dignity. "You are to make nothing of it, of course."
"Am I not?"
"No. It's all supposed to add to my charm, you know," he confided.
"Most charming."
"Always keep them guessing, I say."
"You've done quite well at that. I daresay no one knows what to make of you, concealed as your true abilities and intentions are." She was not quite joking anymore. It was disturbing to realize how little she knew of him, and all that she did know was conflicting. He adjusted quickly to her shift in tone, making her wonder if he was, in addition to everything else, a mind-reader.
"You have observed that I do not choose sides, and it's true to a certain extent. I prepare myself for every conceivable eventuality. But there is always only one side I take, in all conflicts," he said seriously. "My true motivation, Lady Helen, is to advocate understanding between both parties, no matter the nature of the contention."
He was speaking of her brother. He wanted to bring them together again, despite his disapproval of what had caused the rift. That in itself was a romantic notion, that he could achieve such a thing.
She didn't want to speak of it, did not even want to think of Alex right now. She never wanted to think of the events that had caused the conflict between them. She only wanted, with a desperation that frightened her, to believe in the quiet strength of this man who seemed so very capable. She wanted to trust his vision of the world as it could be. She wanted... oh, the things she wanted.
He stood quietly, waiting for any response she might give him, but she could think of nothing. In the middle of his comfortable home, with his presence surrounding her, she felt heavy and weightless at once. She could let go of everything in her past, just let it fall away and step fully into his world, if only her feet would obey. She felt like she'd been lost, and here in this quiet library, could be found again. Everything in the past had been a fiction, like the dark wood in a fairy tale. It only wanted the golden key, the magic word, and she would come out safe on the other side.
But these were fantasies, she knew, even before she was startled out of them by the butler announcing Emily's arrival. Soon they were caught up in introductions and glasses of sherry and the ongoing debate between Marie-Anne's preference for red in the salon and Maggie's staunch defense of cream.
The evening wore on, the ridiculous charade played out quietly over dinner. It was over the pheasant that the question of the mythical church charity was finally raised. He handled it well, solemnly declaring that repairs must be made to certain nearby churches, and the pious aunt was eating from the palm of his hand within minutes. Helen gave him a sharp look, wondering how far he was willing to perjure himself.
"And which will be repaired first, my lord?" Helen couldn't resist needling him. It was too wicked of him, to pretend to give a large amount to a good cause for the sake of this charade.
He looked back at her, full of innocence. "I had hoped for guidance from you. The vicars of all three are in receipt of the money, but the workmen are too few to mount an assault on all of them at once. The water damage to the refectory in Hemmerton is most severe, but it may be more prudent to repair the roof before winter sets in."
She had nothing to respond to that. Emily's aunt was not so reserved, handing out advice for the next quarter hour as Helen stared speechless at her plate. He had truly made the donations. She wanted to laugh at her own misjudgment of him, at the lengths he had gone to for Emily's little romance. She suppressed her amusement at how neatly he had turned her goading of him into a jab at her own ignorant assumptions. It was like the time w
hen she, as a child, had invented tales against her brother, only to have the nursemaid present her with incontrovertible evidence that she was lying, the shards of the broken vase in question tangled in her own hair as proof against her wild stories.
She bit her lips together to contain her mirth, and then made the terrible mistake of looking up at Lord Summerdale. He could sense her hilarity, she knew, for he scowled quite a stern warning in her direction. It only made her want to laugh more, but she controlled herself by taking a few breaths and focusing on the candelabra. It was not funny. It wasn't. Not even remotely, she scolded herself.
Composed at last, she looked at him again. He appeared absorbed in the conversation. He waited a moment – perfectly timed to set her off again – then slanted a mischievous glance her way, the soft green of his eyes touching her through the glow of candlelight.
She supposed, really, that there was nothing to stop her becoming someone's mistress.
The unexpected notion, and the little surge of excitement it engendered, rushed in upon her and utterly eclipsed all other thought. She had never considered it, never thought to want it, but there it was: her status afforded her that freedom. She thought of this, that she was a fallen woman, and all the reasons for that, at the same time that an involuntary vision of his hands on her came to mind – and turned immediately into something else. The thought of soft caresses becoming a bruising grip and moist breath hot in her face, and the muscles in her thighs pulled tight, pressing her legs down hard on her chair.
She stared at the pheasant on her plate and fought down the queasiness that lodged in her throat, a legion of squirming eels in her belly, her breath coming short and inadequate. It was always like this, coming swiftly and irrevocably into her mind, a force she could not defend against when she least expected it. Think of Katie, she told herself as she always did. I will feed Katie little cakes. Marie-Anne will teach her to make lace. Katie will be here. Katie will be with me, like a daughter to me. Katie will be here.
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